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The Phenomenon I woke up feeling wiped out. God knows where I've been all night, but my feet hurt. Outside my window, a phenomenon is taking place. The sun and moon hang side-by-side over the water. Two sides of the same coin. I climb from bed slowly, much as an old man might maneuver from his musty bed in midwinter, finding it difficult for a moment even to make water! I tell myself this has to be a temporary condition. In a few years, no problem. But when I look out the window again, there's a sudden swoop of feeling. Once more I'm arrested with the beauty of this place. I was lying if I ever said anything to the contrary. I move closer to the glass and see it's happened between this thought and that. The moon is gone. Set, at last. Your Dog Dies it gets run over by a van. you find it at the side of the road and bury it. you feel bad about it. you feel bad personally, but you feel bad for your daughter because it was her pet, and she loved it so. she used to croon to it and let it sleep in her bed. you write a poem about it. you call it a poem for your daughter, about the dog getting run over by a van and how you looked after it, took it out into the woods and buried it deep, deep, and that poem turns out so good you're almost glad the little dog was run over, or else you'd never have written that good poem. then you sit down to write a poem about writing a poem about the death of that dog, but while you're writing you hear a woman scream your name, your first name, both syllables, and your heart stops. after a minute, you continue writing. she screams again. you wonder how long this can go on. The Man Outside There was always the inside and the outside. Inside, my wife, my son and daughters, rivers of conversation, books, gentleness and affection. But then one night outside my bedroom window someone - something, breathes, shuffles. I rouse my wife and terrified I shudder in her arms till morning. That space outside my bedroom window! The few flowers that grow there trampled down, the Camel cigarette butts underfoot - I am not imagining things. The next night and the next it happens, and I rouse my wife and again she comforts me and again she rubs my legs tense with fright and takes me in her embrace. But then I begin to demand more and more of my wife. In shame she parades up and down the bedroom floor, I driving her like a loaded wheel- barrow, the carter and the cart. Finally, tonight, I touch my wife lightly and she springs awake anxious and ready. Lights on, nude, we sit at the vanity table and stare frantically into the glass. Behind us, two lips, the reflection of a glowing cigarette. Fear Fear of seeing a police car pull into the drive. Fear of falling asleep at night. Fear of not falling asleep. Fear of the past rising up. Fear of the present taking flight. Fear of the telephone that rings in the dead of night. Fear of electrical storms. Fear of the cleaning woman who has a spot on her cheek! Fear of dogs I've been told won't bite. Fear of anxiety! Fear of having to identify the body of a dead friend. Fear of running out of money. Fear of having too much, though people will not believe this. Fear of psychological profiles. Fear of being late and fear of arriving before anyone else. Fear of my children's handwriting on envelopes. Fear they'll die before I do, and I'll feel guilty. Fear of having to live my mother in her old age, and mine. Fear of confusion. Fear this day will end on an unhappy note. Fear of waking up to find you gone. Fear of not loving and fear of not loving enough. Fear that what I love will prove lethal to those I love. Fear of death. Fear of living too long. Fear of death. I've said that |  |
